Midnight: The Second Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (10 page)

22

N
ightingale blew smoke up at the sky. Inspector Evans stared at the ground glumly. ‘What’s your problem?’ asked Nightingale. They were standing outside the police station. A uniformed constable and a community service officer were also on the pavement, smoking with serious faces.

‘I had tickets for the Arsenal match today,’ he said. ‘A bloody box.’

‘No way,’ said Nightingale.

‘I’ve got a mate who works for Emirates, the airline. He gets seats as a perk, and gave me two for the game today. I was going to take my boy.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Nightingale. ‘Really.’

Evans pulled a face. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he said. ‘Chalmers is a prick. There are others he could have brought in today. But I’m an inspector so he brings me in because inspectors don’t get overtime. Plus, he knew I had the tickets.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s no big deal; my brother-in-law’s taking my boy.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m sorry.’

‘No problem.’ He jutted his chin out. ‘What you did to that paedo, that took guts.’

‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale. He dropped his cigarette butt onto the ground and stamped on it.

‘That’s why you left, right?’

‘I wasn’t given much of a choice.’

‘But they couldn’t prove anything, right? You were in the office when he went out through the window?’

‘Allegedly,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s not something I talk about.’

‘I can understand that,’ said the detective. ‘But guys I’ve spoken to all say the same thing. You did what they’d have wanted to do. He was screwing his daughter, right? Nine years old.’

Nightingale nodded. ‘Yeah.’

Two years had passed since little Sophie Underwood had died but he could remember every second as clearly as if it had just happened. He remembered how her voice had changed to a dull monotone and the way she hadn’t looked at him as she’d spoken. ‘You can’t help me,’ she’d said. ‘No one can help me.’ Then she’d kissed her doll on the top of its head and, without making a sound, she’d slid off the balcony and fallen thirteen floors to her death. He shuddered at the memory of the sickening thud her little body had made as it slapped into the tarmac.

‘My daughter’s eleven,’ said Evans. ‘If anyone touched her, I’d do them, without even thinking about it.’

‘You’d think about it,’ said Nightingale, ‘but you’re right – anyone who touches kids, they deserve anything they get.’

‘And the mother knew, right? She knew what the bastard was doing?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘She said not but there was no way she couldn’t have not known, not with the marks he’d left on her. Anyway, she killed herself, not long after they buried the girl.’

Evans stamped on the ground, trying to keep the circulation moving in his feet. ‘Damn it’s cold,’ he said. ‘They reckon snow’s on the way.’

‘White Christmas,’ said Nightingale. ‘God rest ye merry gentlemen.’ He took out a second cigarette.

Evans pointed at the pack. ‘Have you got a spare one?’

Nightingale raised an eyebrow. ‘You smoke?’

‘Used to,’ said Evans. ‘Wife made me give up when our boy was born.’

Nightingale tapped out a cigarette and gave it to the detective.

Evans shrugged ‘I figure that if I don’t actually buy them, I’m not really a smoker.’

‘Nice philosophy,’ said Nightingale. He lit the man’s cigarette and Evans inhaled gratefully. ‘Chalmers doesn’t really think I’m going around killing people, does he?’

Evans blew a cloud of smoke, and coughed. He patted his chest and grinned shamefacedly. ‘He thinks you killed Simon Underwood and that you got away with murder,’ he said.

‘He’s not alone in that,’ said Nightingale.

‘Yeah, but Chalmers has taken it personally,’ said Evans. ‘He reckons you’ve got friends in high places, which is why you weren’t charged with Underwood’s death.’

Nightingale’s eyes narrowed as he pulled on his cigarette. He tried to blow a smoke ring but the wind whipped it away as soon as it left his mouth. ‘He does, does he?’

‘He has a point, right? You’re alone in the office with Underwood and he exits through the window. How many floors up?’

‘Twenty,’ said Nightingale.

‘And the next day you resigned. Chalmers thinks you should have been charged with murder.’

‘There was no proof, no CCTV, no evidence.’ Nightingale shrugged. ‘And no witnesses.’

‘Me, I couldn’t care less,’ said Evans. ‘One less paedophile in the world and you won’t find me shedding any tears. But Chalmers is gunning for you.’

‘He’s wasting his time,’ said Nightingale. He dropped what was left of his cigarette onto the ground and stood on it. He gestured at the door to the station. ‘Come on, let’s get this over with. And when we’ve finished I’m going to need a lift back to Tyler’s house to pick up my car.’

‘Still driving that MGB? When are you going to get yourself a decent motor?’

‘It’s a classic.’

‘It’s an old banger. But yeah, I’ll arrange a car to run you back. Just don’t tell Chalmers.’

23

J
enny was sitting at her desk reading the
Daily Mail
when Nightingale arrived at the office first thing on Monday morning. ‘The wanderer returns,’ she said. ‘How did it go?’

‘Good news, bad news.’ Nightingale swung his attaché case onto her desk and clicked the locks. He opened the case and handed her a DVD. ‘Here’s what I took from Connie’s computer. Let me know if there’s anything interesting.’ He took out two Ziploc bags and put them down in front of her. ‘A hairbrush and a toothbrush,’ he said. ‘Should be DNA there somewhere.’

‘Please tell me the back door was open,’ she said.

‘Best you don’t know,’ he said. ‘Do me a favour and get that off to the lab ASAP. If we have to pay extra for a rush, so be it. I could do with the results yesterday.’

‘I’ll tell them,’ said Jenny. ‘They’ll want a sample from you too, remember.’

Nightingale grinned and took a sealed tube from the attaché case. ‘Did a cheek scrape this morning,’ he said, putting the tube next to the two bags.

Jenny spotted a copy of the New English Bible in his case. ‘Since when have you been reading the Bible?’

‘Thought it might have something I can use,’ he said. He smiled ruefully. ‘Haven’t found anything yet.’

She picked it up and flicked through it, her mouth opening when she saw the hotel stamp inside the front cover. ‘You stole this from the hotel?’

‘I didn’t steal it. It’s a Gideon Bible. They give them away.’

‘To hotels, Jack.’ She dropped it back into his attaché case. ‘I can’t believe you stole a Bible. You’ll burn in Hell, you know that?’

‘So I’ve been told.’

‘And what’s the bad news? You said good news, bad news.’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘Jack . . .’

Nightingale sighed, lit a cigarette and told her what had happened at Alfie Tyler’s. And how he’d spent most of Saturday in a police cell.

‘Is it over?’ asked Jenny.

‘Probably not,’ said Nightingale. ‘They took my prints and my DNA and Chalmers is going to try to pin one or all of the deaths on me.’

‘But he can’t. You didn’t kill anyone.’

‘I know that and you know that, but Chalmers has the bit between his teeth.’ He closed the attaché case and walked through to his office. ‘And it’s going to get worse before it gets better.’

Jenny followed him into his office and folded her arms as he sat down. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘I had another run-in with the Welsh cops,’ said Nightingale. ‘When I went round to see the parents. It’s no biggie but the superintendent will be calling Chalmers again.’ He put his hands up when he saw her face fall. ‘It’ll be okay,’ he said. ‘I spoke to Mrs Miller and she was fine. She even made me a cup of tea.’ He grinned at her. ‘Speaking of which . . .’

‘And Tyler. Why did he kill himself?’

‘Jenny, I’ve absolutely no idea. I spoke to him on the phone and he was as happy as Larry. Then when I went around to his house it was like he was in a trance.’

‘But he definitely killed himself?’

‘No doubt about that. I watched him do it.’

Jenny frowned. ‘Why didn’t you do something?’ she asked.

‘Don’t you start,’ said Nightingale. ‘You’re as bad as Chalmers.’

‘He thinks you’re involved?’

‘I was involved. I was there. But yeah, he’s trying to make something of it. He took DNA and they Live-scanned my prints and he’ll be looking for forensics. But there won’t be any. I didn’t go anywhere near the car.’ He shrugged. ‘It’ll blow over. How are we doing, work-wise?’

‘A few emails from suspicious spouses wanting to know how much it would cost to prove that their nearest and dearest is fooling around,’ she said.

‘How long is a piece of string?’

‘Exactly what I said,’ replied Jenny. ‘And one of your regulars has been phoning. Eddie Morris. He’s in trouble again and needs your help. He’s been charged with burglary but swears blind he didn’t do it. Wants you to stand up his alibi.’

‘Did you tell him that the cops will do that as part of their investigation? The first thing they’ll do is check his alibi.’

‘He swears blind he was in a pub in Elephant and Castle when one of the burglaries happened so he thinks if he can stand that one up then all the charges will disappear. His problem is that the cops spoke to the landlord and the bar staff and no one remembers Eddie being there.’

‘So he wants me to track down anyone drinking in the pub who can vouch for him?’

‘That’s the plan.’

‘Sort of pals that Eddie’s got, they’ll do that anyway whether he was there or not.’

‘He swears he didn’t do it, Jack. I think he’s hoping you might track down a pillar of the community who’ll put his hand on a Bible and say that Eddie was in the pub.’

‘I’ll give him a bell,’ said Nightingale. ‘If that’s all we’ve got I think I’ll take a run by Gosling Manor and get to work on the inventory. Did you go on Friday?’

‘Barbara and I were there for about three hours,’ she said. She went back into her office and took two notebooks from her desk. ‘We’ve listed about five hundred books.’ She gave the notebooks to him.

‘You’re a star,’ said Nightingale, flicking through one.

‘Barbara was fascinated,’ she said. ‘In fact I think she wants to talk to you about borrowing a few volumes, maybe doing a paper on them.’

‘On what, exactly?’

‘It’s better coming from her, but I think she wants to do something about the fact that in the third millennium people actually believe that witchcraft works.’

‘Maybe it does,’ said Nightingale.

‘Or maybe, as the world becomes more technologically sophisticated, people need to hold on to some sort of belief system. I think she wants to do it along the lines of witchcraft moving into the vacuum left by the decline of religion.’

‘I’ll make sure I order a copy,’ said Nightingale.

‘It was good of her to help me,’ said Jenny. ‘It got dark while we were there and I wouldn’t have wanted to be there on my own.’

‘You see, that’s a crazy thing to say. You’re in a basement. It doesn’t matter if it’s day or night outside. It’s the same. You have to have the lights on either way.’

‘Oh it matters, Jack,’ said Jenny. ‘Trust me, it matters.’

‘What about today? Are you up for helping me?’

‘Are you giving me a choice?’

‘Well, it’s not really in your job description, is it?’

‘I don’t recall there being much of a job description, actually,’ she said. ‘Other than being your assistant.’

‘I still don’t understand why you took the job, what with all the qualifications you’ve got.’

Jenny shrugged. ‘I’m an underachiever,’ she said. ‘No drive or ambition.’

‘You’re the smartest person I know,’ said Nightingale.

‘Thank you, kind sir.’

‘Would you drive? I didn’t bring the MGB in today.’

‘Sure. I’m always happier in a car with airbags anyway.’ She went back into her office and switched off her computer. ‘What are you going to do with the library once you’ve finished the inventory?’

‘Hopefully sell a big chunk of it,’ he said. ‘It’s not as if I’ve got any interest in witchcraft or spooky stuff. Gosling paid big bucks for his collection and I’ll happily take whatever cash I can get.’

‘What’s happening about your father’s estate?’ asked Jenny. ‘When will you know if there’s any money coming your way?’

‘I’m still waiting to hear from Turtledove. He said we should know something in January. But he wasn’t hopeful that there’d be much money coming my way, not with Gosling Manor mortgaged to the hilt. How about a coffee before we head off?’

‘Are you offering to make one?’

Nightingale waved at his feet, up on the desk. ‘I’m sort of comfortable now, and you’re up.’ He grinned at her. ‘I’ll get the next one, promise.’

24

J
enny parked her Audi next to the mermaid fountain in front of Gosling Manor. ‘I suppose I’m going to have to get used to driving you around,’ she said.

‘Why’s that?’ asked Nightingale as he climbed out of the car.

‘Because they take away your driving licence for drink-driving,’ she said. ‘The only question is how long for.’ She picked up a briefcase from the back seat and locked the car doors.

‘I wasn’t in an accident and I wasn’t speeding,’ said Nightingale. ‘I was barely over the limit.’

‘Doesn’t matter, these days,’ she said, following him to the entrance. ‘You might think about getting a full-time driver.’

‘I’m not made of money,’ said Nightingale. He unlocked the front door. ‘Honey, I’m home!’ he shouted. His voice echoed around the hallway.

‘You really are twelve years old, aren’t you?’

‘Can you imagine me living here on my own?’ he said, holding the door open for her. ‘What if I heard a noise in the middle of the night? How long would it take to check every room?’

‘That’s probably why Gosling put in his CCTV system,’ she said. Nightingale closed the door and followed her over to the section of wood panelling that hid the stairway leading down to the basement. She pulled open the panel and switched on the basement lights. ‘Anyway, if you don’t want to live here, sell it.’

‘Easier said than done,’ said Nightingale. ‘The bottom’s fallen out of the luxury-mansion market ever since Brown went after the bankers.’

‘Arabs or Russians, then,’ said Jenny. ‘They’ve always got money. This is a beautiful house, Jack. It’d sell.’

They went down the stairs. Jenny put her briefcase on the desk and took out the two notebooks they’d been using to compile the inventory. ‘We finished the bookcase by the stairs, and most of the one next to it,’ she said. ‘I thought I might put them on computer. It’d make it easier to sort through them by subject or author. What do you think?’

‘Good idea,’ said Nightingale. He lit a cigarette and went over to the desk to get a crystal ashtray. He grinned when he saw the Ouija board beneath it. ‘I wondered where that had got to,’ he said.

The board was a large square of oak that had cracked across the middle. Two words were printed in silver letters in the top corners, YES on the left and NO on the right, and the letters of the alphabet were embossed in gold in two rows across the middle of the board. Beneath the letters were the numbers zero to nine in a row, and below them the word GOODBYE.

He picked it up and showed it to Jenny. ‘You know Parker Brothers still sell Ouija boards as a kids’ toy,’ he said. ‘They even do one that glows in the dark.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ said Jenny, taking off her coat and draping it over the back of one of the sofas.

‘Yeah, and actually Ouija is a trademark. Hasbro owns it. Before Parker Brothers made their set, they were just called spirit boards or talking boards.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Jenny, her voice loaded with sarcasm.

‘Do you know where the name Ouija came from?’

‘
Oui
is yes in French and
Ja
is yes in German?’

Nightingale grinned. ‘That’s what a lot of people think, but it’s more complicated than that. You know Wicca, right? Witchcraft? Well, the guys who designed the game wanted a spooky name and one of them was talking to some Spanish chap and it turns out that the Spanish pronunciation of Wicca is Ouija. So that’s what they went with.’

‘I prefer my version,’ she said. ‘Anyway, since when did you become an expert on Ouija boards?’ asked Jenny.

‘I’ve been reading up on it.’

She put her head on one side and narrowed her eyes. ‘Did you ask me here because you wanted to work on the inventory, or because you wanted another go at the Ouija board?’

‘Jenny . . .’

‘I’m serious, Jack. I don’t like being played.’

‘I swear it hadn’t occurred to me until the moment I saw it,’ said Nightingale. ‘You know me better than that.’

‘I thought I did,’ she said. ‘But recently you’ve been . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Forget it.’

‘I’ve been what?’ asked Nightingale. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re under a lot of pressure, I understand that.’

‘It’s been a rough few weeks,’ agreed Nightingale. He stubbed out his cigarette.

‘But just remember that I’m on your side. You don’t need to play games with me. If you want something, just ask.’

‘Jenny, I swear . . .’

She held up her hand. ‘Okay, I believe you.’

He went to put the board back on the desk, but he stopped and turned back to look at her. ‘Do you want to try again?’ he asked.

She held his look. ‘Do you?’

‘Everything we need is here from the last time,’ he said. ‘Except for the freshly cut flowers and there isn’t a florist for miles.’

‘There’re heathers and stuff in the garden,’ said Jenny.

‘So you’ll do it?’

Jenny sighed. ‘Jack, it’s up to you. But if we’re going to do it I’d be happier if we did it back at my place. We could open a bottle of wine and make a night of it.’

Nightingale could hear the uncertainty in her voice. She was putting a brave face on it but he knew she wasn’t happy at the prospect of using the Ouija board again. ‘This is where Robbie spoke to us,’ he said. ‘And alcohol and the Ouija board don’t mix. Can you do me a favour and see what plants you can find? The more colourful the better.’

As Jenny headed back upstairs, Nightingale went to a cupboard and took out five blue candles, slotted them into candle holders and spaced them evenly around a circular table, then put the Ouija board in the centre. He lit the candles with his cigarette lighter, then went over to the desk and pulled open one of the drawers. Inside were all the things that he’d needed the first time they’d used the board, including the old planchette, distilled water, herbs and consecrated sea salt.

He put the planchette on the board and poured the water into a crystal glass, then set out the herbs. He was just standing back to admire his handiwork when Jenny returned, clutching a handful of twigs with orange-brown flowers.

‘Do you know what they are?’ she asked. ‘I’ll give you a clue: they’re very appropriate.’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘Botany was never one of my subjects,’ he said.

‘What’s your degree in again?’

‘Economics.’

‘Never.’

‘What?’

‘Economics? You can’t even balance your cheque book.’

‘There’s a big difference between the theoretical and the practical,’ he said. ‘Ask me something about supply-side economics.’

‘Okay. What is it?’

Nightingale grinned. ‘It’s a macroeconomic theory described by Jude Wanniski in 1975 that basically says that the economy is best served by lowering barriers to producing goods and services, which in turn lowers prices. It’s in contrast to Keynesian macroeconomics, which argues that demand is more important than supply.’ He winked. ‘I got a First.’

‘You never cease to amaze me,’ she said. ‘If you were that good, why did you become a cop?’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘It’s a long story,’ he said. He waved at the board. ‘Are you playing for time because you don’t want to do this?’

‘I’m ready when you are,’ she said. She held up the twigs again. ‘Witch hazel,’ she said. ‘How appropriate is that?’

‘Brilliant,’ said Nightingale, taking the twigs from her. ‘Be a sweetie and get the lights, will you?’

As Jenny went up the stairs again, Nightingale put the witch hazel into a crystal vase and placed it on the opposite side of the table to the glass of distilled water. Jenny switched off the lights and came back down into the basement. The flickering candles cast moving shadows over the walls. She sat down at the table next to Nightingale.

‘You remember what to do?’ asked Nightingale. He sat down and picked up the planchette. It was made of ivory that had yellowed with age.

‘How could I forget?’ she asked. ‘We visualise a white light all around the table.’

‘That’s right. A protective light, pure white. Keep thinking about the light whatever happens.’ Nightingale pinched some sage from a small bowl and sprinkled it over the candles one by one, then he rubbed some on the board and the planchette; finally he sprinkled lavender and salt over the board.

‘It’s very Jamie Oliver, isn’t it?’ said Jenny.

Nightingale wagged a finger at her. ‘You have to take this seriously,’ he said.

‘I’m trying,’ said Jenny. ‘Believe me, I’m trying.’

‘Are you ready?’

‘As I’ll ever be,’ she said.

Nightingale nodded. ‘Okay.’ He took a deep breath before speaking in a low monotone. ‘In the name of God, of Jesus Christ, of the Great Brotherhood of Light, of the Archangels Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, Uriel and Ariel, please protect us from the forces of Evil during this session. Let there be nothing but light surrounding this board and its participants and let us only communicate with powers and entities of the light. Protect us, protect this house, the people in this house and let there only be light and nothing but light, Amen.’

‘Amen,’ repeated Jenny.

Nightingale looked up at the ceiling. ‘We’re here to talk to Robbie Hoyle,’ he said. ‘Robbie, are you there? Please, talk to us.’

The planchette twitched under their fingers.

‘Robbie, is that you?’

The candle flames simultaneously bent away from the stairs as if a draught was blowing from the door.

‘We want to talk to Robbie Hoyle,’ said Nightingale, raising his voice. ‘Robbie, are you there?’

The planchette scraped across the board and pointed at the word YES.

Nightingale cleared his throat. His mouth had gone suddenly dry.

‘Robbie, we need to talk to you about my sister,’ he said.

The planchette gradually moved back to its original position.

‘Abersoch,’ whispered Jenny. ‘Ask him why he sent you to Wales.’

Nightingale flashed her a warning look to keep quiet. ‘Robbie, this is Jack. I’m here with Jenny. We want to talk to you about my sister. Can you talk to us?’

The planchette slid over to YES again, then moved purposefully back to the middle of the board.

‘Robbie, can you tell—’ Before Nightingale could finish, the planchette slid purposely upwards and pointed at the letter Y. As soon as it reached the bottom of the Y it jerked to the left and settled on the letter O. Then in quick succession it touched U and R.

‘Your,’ said Jenny. She shivered and looked around the basement. ‘Can you feel a draught?’ she asked.

Nightingale nodded. There was a cold breeze blowing from the far end of the basement, even though there were no doors or windows there. The candle flames began to flicker.

Nightingale opened his mouth to speak but, before he could say anything, the planchette started to move again, touching six letters one after the other: S-I-S-T-E-R.

‘Your sister,’ said Jenny.

Nightingale didn’t look at her. The planchette had already started to move again.

I-S. It stopped briefly and then moved on. G-O-I-N-G.

‘Is going,’ said Jenny. ‘Going where?’

Nightingale’s eyes widened. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach because he knew without a shadow of a doubt what was coming.

The planchette stayed where it was for several seconds and then it began to move. Nightingale could feel his fingers pressing down on the pointer as if they were trying of their own accord to stop it from moving.

‘Jenny, you’re not . . .?’

Jenny shook her head fiercely, her eyes fixed on the planchette as it continued to slide across the board.

T-O. It hesitated for a few more seconds, but Nightingale already knew where it was going next. It headed towards the H.

‘No!’ he said. He took his hand off the planchette but it carried on moving, this time towards the E. ‘Leave it, Jenny!’ he shouted.

Jenny looked at him, confused.

‘Let go of it!’ yelled Nightingale.

He reached over and grabbed her arm. He pulled it away and she let go of the planchette. They both stared wide-eyed as it carried on moving. It stopped over the letter E for less than a second and then started to slide towards the L.

‘What’s happening, Jack?’ asked Jenny

Nightingale stood up, grabbed the board and threw it against the wall. As it crashed to the floor, the candles blew out and Jenny screamed.